


Of Tricks, Treats, and Traitors:  A Very DJD Halloween

by Decepticonsensual



Series: The Festival of Mortilus [3]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Halloween
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2014-12-08
Packaged: 2018-02-28 14:17:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2735708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Decepticonsensual/pseuds/Decepticonsensual
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Theshriekingsisterhood requested: "Rung persuading the DJD to go (nonviolently) trick or treating with him in the name of relieving stress and team bonding".  Rated PG-ish; warnings for brief (hypothetical) mentions of death, as well as oblique references to exactly what Tarn and company do for a living.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Tricks, Treats, and Traitors:  A Very DJD Halloween

**Author's Note:**

> Rung first hooked up with the DJD in this story here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/1362547/chapters/2860270, and their joint adventures continued here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/2126451/chapters/4652346. There has never been any explanation for why he's travelling with them, and, if I'm perfectly honest, there probably never will be. I recommend just rolling with it. :)

“Just to reiterate,” Tarn said carefully – oh, so carefully, because Rung’s smile was glowing like a newborn sun, and Tarn cringed at the thought of saying anything to disturb that hopeful expression, “you want us to go from door to door, demanding that the residents give us candy, and promise them some hideous form of retribution if they are unable to comply?”  


“Not  _exactly,_ ” Rung replied, a slight hint of worry beginning to creep into his placid voice.  “It’s supposed to be rather more, er, playful.  I’m almost certain that the word used is ‘trick’, not ‘hideous form of retribution’.”

Vos let loose with a burst of Primal Vernacular to the effect that when people came face to face with the DJD, hideous retribution was generally taken as read.

Tarn sighed.  “Vos does have a point, I’m afraid.  You are, perhaps, underestimating the effect we have on most mecha.”  The DJD had had List mechs literally die of shock on seeing them before now, which technically should have been impossible for a species as difficult to kill as Cybertronians, and yet.  And as frustrating as that was for Tarn and his colleagues, he felt sure it would be infinitely worse for Rung if the therapist had to witness some hapless bot open their door to the DJD and immediately drop dead from sheer terror.  The words “wacky misunderstanding” seemed unlikely to fully smooth things over if that happened.  Worse, Rung would most likely blame himself – especially since he was the one urging them to give this… “trick-or-treating” a try.

Apparently, both Autobots and Decepticons who’d been stationed on Earth had been struck by the similarities one of the Earth holidays bore to the ancient Festival of Mortilus.  Both feasts celebrated victory over death (while, at the same time, including a variety of rituals intended to ward death off a little further, just in case), and both incorporated a startling number of the same traditions:  costumes, masks, sweets, ghost stories.  But the Earth festival, this  _Halloween,_ also involved what seemed a needlessly elaborate charade of wandering around and begging or threatening strangers for sweets, rather than simply sharing them.  It struck Tarn as undignified.  Not so, however, their illustrious Decepticon third-in-command; Soundwave was clearly taken with the tradition, to the extent of arranging extra rations for Decepticon bases safely away from the front lines, so that they could whip up batches of candy and stage their own trick-or-treatings.  Tarn supposed that it was a way of injecting new life into a festival that had long been co-opted by the Senate, and he admired Soundwave for his ingenuity.  However, admiring was one thing; actually participating was another.

Rung, however, was undeterred.  “But that’s where the costumes will come in!”  That hopeful smile was creeping back in, spreading micron by micron over the bot’s gentle mouth, and Tarn winced under his mask.  “It’s your choice, of course, but please consider it, Tarn.  I think this would be a unique opportunity for all of you – a chance to enjoy the company of your fellow Decepticons, without the distance created by your role and reputation.  Surely, it must get exhausting, looking into other mechs’ optics, and only ever seeing fear.”

Tarn exchanged puzzled glances with his team.  He felt he could safely say that, no, no, it wasn’t exhausting in the slightest.  The fear displayed by ordinary Decepticons was simply a function of respect for the DJD’s lethal prowess.  They had  _earned_ that respect.  And as for the terror of a cornered traitor, well… Tarn wouldn’t say it was an  _incentive_ as such, because true Decepticons needed no incentive beyond service to Lord Megatron, but the anticipation of seeing that fear certainly kept the DJD warm during the cold nights of a long, frustrating hunt.  Besides, if they ever wanted companionship without fear, they had one another.

And Rung, now.  Rung, the tiny slip of an Autobot noncombatant who lived with them, travelled with them, and wasn’t the least bit afraid of any of them.  And that was… nice.

When had that happened?

“All right,” Tarn rumbled, as much to avoid analysing his own train of thought too closely as to please Rung.  “We will… try.” 

Several of his unitmates cast dubious looks in his direction, but they all softened at the sound of Rung’s quiet, “Thank you.”

“So…”  Tarn attempted to sound enthusiastic.  “What was that you said about – costumes?”

The costumes posed a problem.  Dressing as Autobots would, of course, be demeaning, though the DJD were careful not to say as much in front of their guest.  Any notion of dressing up as other Decepticons - such as Kaon’s shyly putting forward the idea of Soundwave and his cassettes - was immediately vetoed by Tarn as not reverent enough.  Rung’s suggestion of the classic festival costume of the Guiding Hand and Mortilus Bound, on the other hand - heh, “hand” - was shot down as  _too_ reverent, in spite of the fact that they had exactly the right numbers (and Tarn’s cooling fans kicked on at the mere hint, however oblique, that Rung was interested in seeing Tarn bound and gagged as Mortilus).  Such an idea reminded them too strongly of the state-run religious festivals before the war, carefully choreographed celebrations of the gods who had made all Cybertronians and (according to the Senate) set each one in the exact right place in society.  It was all a little too Primalist, a little too…  _Autobot._

In the end, the DJD ended up going trick-or-treating as… the DJD.

Well, sort of.

Kaon flexed his Tesla coils nervously, testing the give of the electrical tape Rung had plastered around the base of each to make it look like they were fakes, amateurishly attached to his shoulders.  Helex and Tesarus were decked out in huge ponchos with a smelter and a grinder, respectively, painted onto them, and the Pet – who was straining impatiently at Kaon’s leash, the only one of the crew who was thoroughly happy to head out – was sporting obvious smears of epoxy around its mouth to try and make its teeth look pasted on.  All of them wore paint a few shades brighter or darker than their real colours, hastily applied.  Kaon had to admit that the plan was an interesting one, but such subtle signs were hardly going to help if the first bot they encountered keeled over as soon as they opened the door.

The only unrecognisable one of the group was Rung himself, who was in a long cloak and, with meticulous attention to detail, had crafted a full-head mask to resemble a horrific creature, one that haunted the nightmares of most Decepticons almost as often as the DJD did.

Tarn readjusted the cheap plastic Tarn mask over his… well, actual Tarn mask.  “Everyone – act – non-threatening,” he gritted out through his dentae.  Helex immediately hunched over, as if trying to shrink in on himself, but in a way that only served to make him seem more hulking; Tesarus’s grinder churred nervously under the poncho; Kaon plastered on his sweetest smile and instantly looked like he was contemplating how many creative ways there were to eviscerate whoever opened the door; and Vos tilted his head to the side and widened his optics in a way that was clearly shooting for “fetching and innocent”, missed, and hit “ravenous cannibal” instead.

Rung quietly shuttered his optics.

“Trick or Treat!” chorused the DJD as the door opened.  Vos just held his candy bag up in an appealing manner.

The bot had opened the door with a wide smile… that faltered when he set optics on his visitors.  The fuel drained from his faceplates, and his engine stuttered, weapons systems starting to spin up on instinct.  Rung held his ventilations, watching.  A moment later, the tape, the ponchos, and the obviously fake masks had registered, and Rung sighed and smiled at the faint whine of the mech’s weapons powering down again.

The mech in the doorway grinned.  “You know, you lot gave me quite a fright there.  For a second, I thought…”

He stopped.  Peered a little more closely at Kaon’s real-trying-to-look-fake-trying-to-look-real coils.

And that bright smile became suddenly glassy, fixed in place as a look of horror started to creep into his optics.

Rung hastily stepped forward, raising a hand towards the mech, who was now panicking in earnest – but he was forestalled by a heavy hand settling firmly on his shoulder.  Looking up, he saw Tarn, optics grim, starting to advance on the hapless Decepticon.

“No –” Rung whispered as Tarn opened his mouth to use that terrible gift –

“Do you like our costumes, mister?”

Rung blinked.  The voice that had just come out of the DJD leader was…  _wrong._ High and breathless, it sounded downright bizarre issuing from the massive tankformer, but there was a strange sweetness to it that sent a low throb of contentment through Rung’s spark.  He felt as though he were sinking backwards into a warm oil bath, held and supported by the gentle strains of that voice.

It seemed to have the same effect on the bot in the doorway, who stared, then slumped against the doorway, letting out a long vent.

“We tried to make them as scary as we could,” Tarn finished meekly.

“Yeah – yeah, they’re great.  For a second I… yes, very scary.  Blessed Festival of Mortilus, pal,” the mech murmured as he dropped a wrapped energon sweet into each bag.  And if he closed the door more quickly than might be expected, at least he did so with a smile.

“Well,” said Rung into the silence that followed.  “That was touch and go for a moment, but it ended up going far better than I feared.”  He flipped the front of his mask up, revealing a cautiously optimistic face.  “I’m not certain exactly what you did, Tarn, but thank you.”

Tarn actually looked embarrassed for the first time since Rung had met him – possibly for the first time in his function.  “It’s nothing.  My voice has upper registers as well as lower, that’s all.  I can use them to invoke… comfort.  A sense of peace.”  He fiddled with his masks, both of them, with an uncharacteristic clumsiness.  “I have little professional call for it.”

Rung was bursting to tell him to forget professional – why would anyone  _not_ want to use that voice as often as possible? – but he confined himself to joking, “Perhaps, of the two of us, you’re the one who was made to be a therapist.”

“Or perhaps, Doctor,” Tarn replied with deceptive mildness, “neither of us was ‘made’ to be anything.”  He gave Rung a long, assessing look that raked over him from helm to foot, leaving the Autobot feeling oddly exposed in its wake.  “Speaking of which, if I may ask:  what prompted you to choose  _that_ costume?”

Rung ran his hand slowly over the open mask.  It was fashioned out of a collection of stark, brutal-looking gears that, combined, formed the “face” of one of the members of the infamous Functionalist Council from just before the war.  “I’ve always held,” he murmured, “that the Festival of Mortilus pushes us to confront our fears, whatever they are.  To learn to face the monster by spending an hour or two inside its plating.”

Glancing up, he met Tarn’s intent gaze steadily.  “Besides, if I’m going to be trick-or-treating in the company of the infamous DJD, I want to be able to hold my own as a fearsome spectacle.”

Tarn’s optics widened as the smile that had been tugging at the corner of Rung’s mouth broke out fully, and the Decepticon realised that he was – as difficult as it was to believe – being teased.

“Oh, I don’t know, Doctor.”  One massive purple arm, bent a little at the elbow, extended towards Rung.  “I would say  _you’re_  the most intimidating one among us.”  And if that low, smooth drawl contained just the faintest ripple of Tarn’s sweet tones from earlier, tickling pleasurably at the very edges of Rung’s spark, neither of them remarked on it.

Interestingly enough, the rest of the evening passed largely without incident.  After all, as far as the bots around them were concerned, that hulking stranger in the Tarn mask might look the part, but when would you ever see a member of the DJD walking around arm-in-arm with a Functionalist?


End file.
